A day in the life of Molly Hooper
by Bunnyapocalypse96
Summary: Just a regular, mundane day. The day after John and Mary's wedding, to be precise.
1. Chapter 1

Beep, beep, beep.

Slam.

Beep, beep, beep.

SLAM.

Crash.

Beep, beep, beep.

I open my eyes groggily to find the alarm clock. The light siphoning in from the crack in the curtains feels like a flashlight in my eyes. I groan into an upright position and start to look around for the alarm clock. I find it at the foot of my bedside table, still beeping.

Beep, beep, bee—

I manage to find the off switch after the third try.

"Tom," I mutter, poking the still-sleeping lump next to me. It groans and rolls over onto its stomach. "Tom!" I reiterate, this time poking more forcefully, "Get up, for God's sake!"

"What time's it?" Comes the muffled mutter from his pillow.

"Time for work," I say as I start to make my way to the kitchen. Before exiting the room, I stop in the doorway and I look at Tom lying there in our bed. In the pit of my stomach, I am suddenly filled with a dreadfully hollow feeling. I feel my hand starting to twist my engagement ring from side to side on my finger.


	2. Chapter 2

I hear Tom come down the stairs, probably awakened by the sound of the boiling kettle.

"Coffee?" I ask without turning away from where I am brewing my own cup.

"Yeah, thanks," he says, sitting down at the kitchen table. I hear his fingers drumming on the table behind me.

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

With two cups in hand, I join Tom at the table. We drink our respective cups in silence and then give each other awkward smiles when the cups are empty.

"So," Tom starts, attempting to make conversation, "John and Mary's wedding last night was really—something, don't you think?"

"Yes," I say, thinking back fondly to the events of the previous evening, "They seem to really love each other."

"I just hope our wedding isn't as—well—theatrical,"

I am brought back from my fond memories in a flash. "What do you mean?" I ask, my voice coming out just a tad sharper than I had intended.

Tom recoils slightly, but still unwittingly continues down his destructive path. "Well, the whole business with the murder seemed a bit much to me, to be honest. I mean, who stages something like that at their own wedding?"

I shake my head disbelievingly. "It wasn't staged at all! There really was a murderer present at the reception and Sherlock really did catch him."

Tom gives me a little head shake. "You can't honestly believe that someone is capable of that, Molly. Catching a murderer just like that? One, two, three? No, not even Sherlock Holmes is that good."

"Besides," he says as he gets up to make toast, "My mate Jim reckons he's a fraud."

I abruptly realise that I'm on my feet and that my fists are balled up in anger. I take three deep breaths to steady myself before responding to Tom's ignorance.

"You don't know Sherlock," I say icily, "Don't pass judgements on people you know absolutely nothing about." With that I remove myself from the kitchen and my fiancé before sparking any more flames. That hollow feeling in my stomach returns and I do my best to ignore it.

I don't try to look fancy for my work. The dead don't normally care about what you look like, anyway.

I dress quickly and efficiently, finishing my ensemble off with an overcoat for the rain. I tie my hair in a tight knot at the back of my neck.

As an afterthought, I put on a small amount of my favourite lipstick.

I notice that Tom is still in his pyjamas when I look into the kitchen. Choosing for a moment to let my anger at him go, I walk over and peck him on the cheek.

"I've got to go," I tell him.

"Quite right," he says with a mouthful of toast, "Have a nice day. I love you."

I smile and nod before heading out the door and onto the bustling London streets. I take the same route to work every day, but today I decide to take the long way around. I don't know what compels me to do this, but quite soon I am passing by building 221 in Baker Street.

I pause for a moment to look up at the window of the second storey flat, wondering wistfully if I might spot a dark silhouette there, maybe with violin in hand…

But there's nothing to be seen in the small window of the building. I realise that I'm silly to expect that I would. My watch tells me that it's only 07:30, and Sherlock doesn't wake up before 10:00 if he can help it. Not unless there's a reason important enough for him to.

And that reason most certainly isn't me.

I realise that I am once again twisting my engagement ring from side to side on my finger. I lift my hand to my face and I look at the small piece of jewellery.

When Tom had given me the ring, I was so happy. I remember looking at the small box with its shiny centre and seeing such promise; the promise of a future, the promise of love, maybe a family someday— It held everything that a girl could want from life.

I look at the ring again and I try my very best to see all that I had seen that day, but I come up short. I realise that it's as if the focus of that promise has somehow shifted from the beautiful ring that I held so dearly to that small window on the second storey of that small building in Baker Street.

For the first time, I allow myself to realise when this shift happened. It was when I saw Sherlock for the first time since his "death" two years ago. To some extent, I had convinced myself in those two years that Sherlock really was dead. It helped me move past what he had meant to me and, in my own way, I got the opportunity to heal and to start living a normal life with Tom. The moment I saw him, however— real, alive and in need of my help— I just dropped everything.

I didn't even think twice about it.

All those months of progress I had made, and I threw it all away because of one text message ending in "SH".

I suddenly notice that I have been standing in the rain for fifteen minutes. I turn my collar up against the wind and I make my way to the lab where the cadavers await me eagerly.


	3. Chapter 3

"Strangulation," I declare, pointing out the ligature marks around the girl's neck, "That's cause of death, at least. Lab tests didn't indicate any drugs in her system, though."

"Damn," Lestrade mutters under his breath. "Are you sure your tests were thorough, though? Maybe— Oh, I don't know—maybe one of the lab techs missed something?"

I frown at Lestrade's impatience. "Why not just get Sherlock to look at the case file for you? I'm sure he'll solve it in ten minutes flat. He might even complain about how much you bore him afterwards." I smile at the thought of Sherlock calling Lestrade slow for not being able to pinpoint a murderer right away.

"No, I don't want to do that," Lestrade says simply. He shifts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, avoiding my gaze.

"Why?" I ask, getting the mounting feeling that the detective has ulterior motives for not wanting Sherlock involved in his case.

"There's no reason," Lestrade responds too quickly, "I just don't feel that Sherlock will be needed on this case. I can handle it."

I raise an eyebrow sceptically. "Oh, really?" I ask disbelievingly, "So you're not going to ask Sherlock to help you and you're going to make more work for yourself, _because you want to?_"

"Yeah," he says unconvincingly, his gaze now on his steadily shuffling feet. Then, realising that the façade was crumbling anyway, "Oh, fine, then! The boys in the office think I've gotten lazy in solving my own cases. They've got a poll running to see how long I can go without running to Sherlock for help."

This news makes me laugh. It's the first time that I've laughed— really laughed— in ages.

When I've stifled my laughter enough to respond to the now rather miffed- looking Lestrade, I grin at him. "You should've told me about this poll sooner. I would've liked to get in on that action!"

Lestrade rolls his eyes. "You and half of London, probably. Not that my entire division's any better, though."

"Alright, so you can't ask Sherlock," I say, nodding understandingly, "Why don't you ask John, then? I'm sure he'll be pretty helpful, too, what with him being Sherlock's partner and all."

"Already tried that," Lestrade sighs hopelessly, "He's blocked all the calls going through to his phone. I mean, I understand that he's on his honeymoon and all, but he could at least leave his phone on in case of emergencies!"

"Somehow, I don't think that you wanting help with your case so you don't lose a bet counts as an emergency," I say.

"I suppose you're right," he relents, "Fine, I'll look over the case file again. Maybe go to the crime scene one more time to see if we missed anything. I'll be seeing you, Molly."

"Bye," I say with a smile, anxious to get back to the newest corpse that had come in yesterday evening.


	4. Chapter 4

After work, I decide to once again pass Baker Street in the hopes of spotting that elusive silhouette in the top-most window of building 221. By the time I reach the street, it's already dark out.

It had, in the meantime, stopped raining and the night air is surprisingly cool and pleasant, so I decide to stop just outside of Sherlock's apartment for a breather.

Standing here, I start to think about what I'm going home to. There's nothing wrong with Tom, but as I am standing in the light radiated from the windows of 221A and B, I can't seem to think of a single thing that's right about him, either. It's as if all the qualities that I had seen in Tom, all those qualities that I fell in love with, had been replaced with one name, one face and one voice.

"Good evening, Molly Hooper," I hear that very voice say behind me.

I jump and spin around to face Sherlock. He is leaning against a wall on the opposite side of the street.

"Good Lord, Sherlock, you scared me half to death!" I tell him angrily, holding my hand over my heart in an attempt to steady my rapidly beating pulse.

"Thinking about Tom, then?" Sherlock asks, ignoring my previous sentence.

"Why do you ask?" I inquire.

"You're hands," Sherlock says, nodding toward them, "You've been twisting that engagement ring of yours around and around your finger for a good five minutes now. Force of habit, I'm assuming."

I look down at my hands and then force them to hang still at my sides. "And you were just watching me that entire time?"

"You were thinking," Sherlock shrugs, "I don't intrude when people are alone with their thoughts."

I am about to answer when I notice the cigarette in his hand. "Were you smoking?" I ask furiously, "You know that you're not supposed to do that, Sherlock! You start smoking and it just goes downhill from there. Think of what John and Mrs. Hudson and—"

"It's celebratory," he interrupts me.

"Celebratory?" This cuts my lecture short, "What are you celebrating?"

"My birthday," he says matter-of-factly.

"It's your—what?" I have no idea how to react to this revelation. I open my mouth to say something and I close it again when I can't manage to think of anything to say. Finally, I come up with a meek: "Happy Birthday."

"Thank you," Sherlock says before taking another pull of the cigarette. He blows out a puff of smoke with a content sigh of: "Happy birthday, indeed."

For the next few minutes, we stand there in the silence and the darkness; Sherlock smoking and I staring.

"Well, I better get going," I say awkwardly, "You have a nice evening, Sherlock. Enjoy your—er—birthday."

Sherlock nods silently and I feel his eyes trained on me as I walk away.

"Oh, Molly," he calls me back. Some underlying emotion in his voice catches my attention.

I turn around immediately and I find that he has taken a few steps in my direction and is now considerably closer to me than he was before. "Yes?"

His next question comes out abruptly and unexpectedly. "Are you happy?"

The words seem so alien coming out of the mouth of the man standing in front of me that my brain doesn't quite register what he says at first.

"I'm sorry?"

He sighs exasperatedly and repeats his question. "Are you happy?"

I open my mouth to tell him of course, of course I was happy, but the answer catches in the back of my throat. There, my answer starts to become disfigured and malformed until it comes out as something completely different to what it was.

"Am I happy?"

As I hear myself say the doubtful words to Sherlock, I become painfully aware of the fact that there is no way for me to take them back. No amount of talking or explaining would take back those three words I just uttered. And so, I do the only thing left to do. A last resort, of sorts.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," I hurry into the night without waiting for a response.


	5. Chapter 5

"Tom, I'm home," I call from the door. I take my coat and I hang it on the coat rack beside the staircase.

I find Tom watching television in the living room and I give him a peck on the cheek. "How was your day?" He asks me without taking his eyes off the television.

"Oh, it was fine," I say with a shrug, "How was yours?"

Tom smiles at me. "Oh it was great! My presentation was a big hit at today's board meeting and afterwards the boys and I went to the pub where we—"

I watch Tom as he talks about his day, not fully taking in what he's saying. Sherlock's question keeps drifting to the forefront of my mind. No matter how much I try to ignore it, it's still there: nagging, tugging, pulling…

Am I happy?

I look at Tom. He is my shot at a normal life. He is a good man. He comes from a good family; he has nice friends and doesn't see the world through a mask of self-importance. He loves me; the way he sometimes looks at me makes me feel like the most important person in the world.

But he's not who I want.

I feel my hand repeatedly twisting the ring on my finger from side to side, but instead of stopping my hand this time, I allow it to pull the ring completely free from my finger.

"Tom?" I interrupt his story about how he and his mates won the football match today.

"Yes?" he asks.

I put the ring in his hand and I get up from off the couch. "The engagement's off," I tell him.

Without another word, I walk out of the living room. I take my coat off the coat hanger at the bottom of the stairs and I walk out of the door, turning my collar up against the wind.

I close the door firmly behind me.


End file.
